Dani Daniels Vs Jessa Rhodes

Dani slides her fingers into Jessa Rhodes. Every digit disappears between those slick, grasping walls. One knuckle at a time, then another. She keeps mental tally. One. Two. Three. Jessa's cunt squeezes down in wet pulses, a deliberate tug-of-war on each buried inch. She breathes through it. Four now. Deep enough that her palm presses flat against Jessa's mound and Jessa's hips tilt, seeking more even when there's no more to give. The heat is slick, insistent, and Dani feels each subtle ripple dragging at her. She curls, searching, then stops. Because something inside Jessa catches hold like it intends to keep what it has found.